Homecoming
by Virginiana
Summary: A sequel to Renaissance and Heart of the Matter. Andrew's first visit to Hastings after his father's remarriage means adjusting to big changes at home.
1. Chapter 1: Changes

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 **Part One: Changes**

 _Saturday 15 August 1942_

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the late-summer sky with a gorgeous palette of coral and lavender, fuchsia and tangerine. It was breathtaking – even when viewed, as Andrew Foyle now did, through the scratched Perspex window of a Wellington bomber. _Funny thing_ , he thought. When had he last taken the time to appreciate the simple beauty of a sunset from the air? Probably not since fighter training in Ross-shire back in 1940. A lifetime ago. He'd enjoyed some dazzling Highland sunsets that summer, but since them his focus had been on other things. No time for enjoying the scenery when there was a war on.

But this evening, for the first time in over two years, he didn't have to scan the skies for Jerry or make sure his student wasn't about to blunder into the side of a mountain. He was airborne, true, but in a decidedly off-duty capacity. His tour as a flight instructor at RAF Church Fenton concluded, he'd been granted a week's leave before reporting to his next assignment. Naturally he'd planned to spend the time in Hastings. He had expected to make the journey by train before picking up word on the 'drome grapevine of this bomber being returned to the South Coast after repairs. He'd jumped at the chance to hitch a ride and avoid the day-long rail journey. Not strictly within the rules, perhaps, but Maggie, the Air Transport Auxiliary pilot who'd been dispatched to shuttle the Wellington south, happened to be the elder sister of one of his mates. Andrew knew her slightly, having met her at a mess dance when her duties had brought her to Church Fenton. She'd seemed happy enough for his company on the flight from Yorkshire to Sussex.

The journey would take nearly two hours. Once they were aloft Andrew found himself at leisure, free not only to gaze at sky and land but also to contemplate the days ahead. He was looking forward to his leave, to taking a well-deserved break and spending time with Dad, but his anticipation was tempered by the realisation that his home wouldn't be the same. Number 31, Steep Lane no longer housed only Christopher Foyle. Three months ago it had also become home to Katherine, his new wife, and her young daughter.

Andrew's feelings toward his father's remarriage were mixed, something about which he was secretly rather ashamed. He was well aware that he'd been nudging the older man toward some sort of social life for years – had even been bold enough, once or twice, to suggest that Dad ought to consider marrying again. He knew he was lonely, especially since Andrew had gone up to Oxford. It bothered him to think of his father rattling round the house on his own, and how he would cope if Andrew were killed in combat didn't bear thinking about. But now that Dad had finally taken the hint and found someone new, the son found himself unable to take much pleasure in the circumstances.

The biggest problem, as he readily admitted to himself, was that he simply didn't know his father's new wife. He'd met her precisely twice – once the previous December, when an unexpected air-raid had forced her to seek shelter at the house, and then at their wedding in May. Both meetings had been brief and rather stilted; neither had afforded time for anything like a real conversation. He'd made a special effort to get down for the wedding on a three-day pass so he could stand up as best man for Dad, but the difficulties of wartime travel meant that he'd spent barely thirty-six hours of it in Hastings. On both occasions Katherine had struck him as poised and intelligent, but Andrew still had reservations. Would she understand Dad's introverted, reserved nature? Would she make him happy?

And what about the child – what was her name? Cecily, that was it, a sprightly seven-year-old with long golden hair and large brown eyes like her mother's. Andrew's experience with small girls dated back to his own primary-school days, his memories confined to rope-skipping, high-pitched giggles and dangling pigtails. What was it like for Dad, having a little girl in the house? And what on earth was Andrew meant to say to her?

And then, of course, there was the house itself. What changes would Katherine have made? Dad had already written that he'd moved Andrew's belongings up to the second storey in order to allocate his room to Cecily. Might Katherine have redecorated, discarded all his mother's beloved paintings and knickknacks in favour of her own things? Would he find the furniture moved round and all the familiar objects swept away? The idea of another woman living in his mother's home, cooking in her kitchen, sleeping in her bed – well, it was unsettling, to say the least. During all his time away, first at Oxford and then in the RAF, Andrew had unconsciously drawn comfort from the knowledge that home remained the same, with the same pictures on the walls, the same creaks on the stairs and Dad ensconced in his chair in the sitting room. Now that security was gone.

He told himself he was being unreasonable. Of _course_ he was happy his father wasn't alone anymore. Katherine seemed like a perfectly nice woman, and he was in no doubt that Dad was smitten. An image rose to mind: the expression on his father's face at the wedding, lit up with a joy quite alien to his usually enigmatic features. He'd been gazing at his bride, who looked flushed and happy and undeniably lovely in a rose-coloured suit. Her small daughter stood beaming by her side, clad in a pale-pink dress trimmed with lace and clutching a bouquet of daisies, clearly delighted by her role as her mother's bridesmaid. The three of them looked somehow _right_ together, as if they had already formed a new family. But if Dad had found a new family, well … where did that leave Andrew?

He sighed, shifting in his seat. The prospect of feeling like a stranger in his own home wasn't appealing, but there was nothing else for it. He'd have to make the best of it, whatever came.

* * *

Andrew watched in quiet admiration as ATA Second Officer Maggie Shaw touched the bomber smoothly down on the runway at RAF Lympne. The late summer twilight had given way to full darkness but she lined up the heavy craft neatly with the flare path and brought it in with skill and confidence. A Wellington normally flew with a crew of six – pilot, navigator, wireless op, bomb aimer and two gunners. While the latter four jobs were unnecessary on a transport flight, she managed the combined tasks of pilot and navigator as though it were the most natural thing in the world. What was even more impressive was that tomorrow she would accomplish the same feat in a completely different aircraft, for ATA pilots had to be prepared to fly many different types of aeroplane, often in damaged condition. It was dangerous work – not as hazardous as combat, of course, but risky enough. He'd heard that the Air Transport Auxiliary lost pilots, of whom one in eight was a woman, at the rate of about one a fortnight. Unsung heroes of this war, like so many others.

Maggie taxied the plane toward dispersal and flipped the switches to power down the twin engines. "Best hop out as soon as the props stop, Foyle, before someone sees you and I get a ticking-off." She nodded at the ground-crew lads approaching with chocks to secure the wheels. He shouldered his kit bag, thanked her again for the lift and ducked out of the hatch unnoticed.

Once he was well clear of the Wellington he stopped near the runway and looked round, drinking in the sights and sounds of an operational aerodrome on full alert. He'd spent the past year and a half in training units far from combat, but the memories of flying ops were indelibly etched in his mind. The acrid smells of rubber and aviation fuel and the constant roar of engines were the same at any airfield, but the sense of urgency conveyed by the hurrying mechanics in their grease-stained blue coveralls, the plumbers towing a trolley of bombs toward a cluster of Blenheims, the pungent cordite stench of ammunition, the speeding fuel trucks and the crackle of the tannoy – all these were unique to an operational station, as he remembered only too vividly.

Andrew had served some six months at this very 'drome, through the Battle of Britain and beyond. Now the memories came flooding back: the endless hours of waiting kitted out in the dispersal hut, the terror of those early ops, the thrill of his first kill. All the friends he'd flown with and lost – Rex, Douglas, Matthew, Jack … so many good men gone. So many memories.

He dragged himself back to the present and began to walk, skirting the busy areas and noticing how much things had changed over the past eighteen months. The grass runway had been paved and proper hangars constructed along with a control tower, new barracks and a headquarters building. Even the rickety old tea caravan had been replaced with a purpose-built structure, though it looked like little more than a glorified shack. Thinking something hot sounded just the ticket after his chilly high-altitude flight, Andrew headed for it. No doubt someone there could tell him what time he could catch a bus into Hastings. He'd written his father to expect him tomorrow evening, but no matter. Dad was used to him popping in unexpectedly.

He hung behind of the cluster of erks at the service window, waiting his turn. When the crowd thinned, he stepped forward. "Coffee or tea, Flight Lieutenant?" asked the tea lady in her smart green WVS uniform. Their eyes met. "Andrew!"

He did a double take. " _Katherine_?" He had completely forgotten that his father's new wife did volunteer work at Lympne.

She broke into a warm smile. "How wonderful to see you! We didn't expect you until tomorrow evening. How on earth did get here so quickly?"

"Cadged a lift on a transport," he told her. "I hope it's not a problem, my getting here early. I saw a chance to avoid a day on the train and jumped at it."

"Don't be silly! Your father will be delighted. He was just saying - "

" _Oi,_ missus, any chance of a cuppa then?" interrupted a testy-looking sergeant mechanic at Andrew's shoulder.

Shooting her stepson an apologetic look, she poured the Geordie his tea. "So sorry, sergeant … Helen, I'm going to step out for a minute. Can you take over?" she called to another volunteer filling a tea urn behind her. She nodded Andrew to a spot a few yards away, removed from the press round the service counter. When she joined him there a minute later she was carrying a mug of tea and two shortbread biscuits on a tray. "As I was saying," she said, proffering it, "Christopher will be so glad to see you. A lovely surprise."

"Thanks," he told her, taking a grateful swallow. The warmth rippled through him, just what he wanted after the cold of the Wellington's cockpit. "Mmmmm, perfect. I feel daft – I completely forgot you work here. So how late are you on?"

"I usually finish around midnight." She glanced at her wristwatch. "The last bus left at ten; I'm afraid you've missed it."

"Then how will you get home?"

"One of the WAAFs from the motor pool gives me a lift into Hastings when I take a late shift. She'll take you too if you don't mind waiting a while."

"Not at all. I'll just wander round and try to stay out of everyone's way." He took a bite of biscuit, deliciously rich and crisp. "Look, don't let me keep you from – " He broke off, his attention diverted by the sound of an approaching engine. It was a Spitfire, he could tell, but something was seriously wrong – it was sputtering ominously. He stared into the sky, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Seconds later it appeared, dropping out of darkness toward the runway. Black smoke was pouring from the engine, while the wings dipped and wobbled drunkenly and the tail plane – _Christ_ , half the rudder was gone. It was nearly impossible to control a Spit in that condition, Andrew knew, especially upon landing. Chances were it would skitter sideways, quite possibly right at them –

His mug shattered on the concrete. "Clear the area!" he bellowed, his heart pounding. "Clear the area, NOW!" Katherine's tray flew from her hand as he jerked her round the back of the canteen, pushed her to the ground and threw himself on top of her.


	2. Chapter 2: Tea and Sympathy

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 **Part Two: Tea and Sympathy**

The tannoy echoed his warning just as he flung himself across his father's wife. "Take cover! Take cover!" it boomed. Andrew shielded his head, bracing for the impact. If that kite skidded in their direction, this flimsy hut wasn't going to offer much protection. When nothing happened after several seconds he cautiously raised his head just in time to see the Spit careen into a fuel truck on the far side of the runway. The explosion shook the ground and sent up a blinding fireball; around him he heard shouts and curses. Beneath him Katherine gave a frightened cry. _Bloody hell,_ Andrew thought, shielding her as best he could from the wave of searing heat and the debris that rained down around them. _Can't let Dad lose her too. Not after Mum!_

The thought startled him, but he pushed it aside and got to his feet, blinking through the billows of acrid smoke blowing toward them. Katherine sat up, looking shaken. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

"Yes, of course – are you?"

"Fine." He pulled her to her feet. Her hand trembled in his but she immediately went to the aid of a nearby warrant officer with an ugly shrapnel wound to his shoulder. Around them others were rising too, gasping and coughing, some moaning in pain. He could hear the sirens of approaching fire tenders.

Katherine quickly fetched a first-aid kit from the canteen and began to bandage the wounded shoulder with deft, gentle hands, reassuring the man in a calm voice. Andrew tried his best to help, supporting the shaking figure, but she clearly had the situation well in hand. As soon as she had secured the bandage, two medics swept in and bore the patient away on the back of a jeep.

Katherine turned away to assist someone else and Andrew soon lost sight of her in the muted chaos. He circled round the 'drome, offering assistance where he could and gleaning bits of information about the crash along the way. More than an hour passed before he found his way back to the canteen.

He found Katherine and the other WVS woman preparing to do the washing-up. It looked as though everyone at the station had dropped by for a restoring cuppa after the crash, for the pile of dirty mugs was sizeable. "No, really, Helen, I'll be fine," Katherine was saying as he approached. "I can easily take care of the rest. You get on home to your children. I insist. It's past midnight."

The woman agreed. After she had departed Andrew stepped through the doorway. Katherine, rolling up her sleeves, gave him a tired smile, but he could see redness round her eyes. Her hair was mussed and her smart green uniform rumpled and spotted with bloodstains. "Rotten thing," he said awkwardly.

"Yes," she replied softly, sounding weary. "Yes, it is. We've had crash landings before, of course, but never as bad as this."

"It shouldn't have happened," he told her, turning his cap in his hands. "He should have ditched at sea. Nearly impossible to land a plane with that kind of damage. God knows what he was thinking. He could have killed a dozen people."

"Instead of just …" she broke off, sounding choked, and folded her arms in front of her, hugging herself. "I assume you heard about Rosemary?"

"She was the WAAF?" The crash landing had killed not only the pilot but also the unlucky WAAF who'd been driving the fuel truck. He could tell by the tight, shocked faces all round that her loss had hit everyone hard.

"Yes. A feisty redhead from Belfast. Loved to laugh. Everyone adored her."

Andrew frowned. He'd grown rather inured to the death of young men, but to hear of a woman killed so violently was still wrenching. _Stupid bloody war._ "I'm sorry," he said. "Never easy, losing a friend … had you known her long?"

"Ever since I came here, two years ago. She always tried to coax extra biscuits out of me. And she was the one who always gave me a lift home when I was on the night shift."

He looked sharply at her. "Oh. Does that mean we have a problem?"

"I'm afraid it does." Katherine went to the sink, turned on the hot-water tap and began to pile in mugs. "I don't want to ask one of the other girls. They're all in bits. We're probably stuck here until morning. But I'm sure the Wing Commander can find you a bunk in the officers' quarters."

 _And leave you here in this miserable shack all night?_ Andrew thought. _Not a chance._ This woman had earned his respect tonight with her courage and compassion. He'd have wanted to see her safely home even if she hadn't been his father's wife. "I'll sort something out," he told her, glad to be able to take some sort of action to allay the helpless feeling he so despised. "Let me look after it."

* * *

When he returned to the canteen Katherine was spreading her tea-towels out on a rack to dry. Dozens of mugs were stacked in neat pyramids on the draining board and the big tea-urns had been scrubbed and left open to air. Andrew thought of the hundreds of cups of tea he'd been served at canteens like this since joining up and wondered why he'd never appreciated all the work that went into providing them. "Ready to go?" he asked. "I've got us transport. It's not fancy, but it will get us there."

"How resourceful!" She slipped on her coat and followed him outside. What she saw there, however, made her stop short. "A motorbike? Where did you get it?"

"Borrowed it from one of the erks. Good chap; knew him when I was based here." He wondered if she would balk at riding pillion, but she merely pulled her hat down tight and climbed on behind him, slipping her arms round his waist. "Hold on tight," he cautioned. _Game lady,_ he thought with a private grin as he kicked the engine to life. _Looks like you found yourself a good one, Dad._


	3. Chapter 3: The Comforts of Home

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 **Part Three: The Comforts of Home**

Christopher Foyle was beginning to worry.

He had never been comfortable with Katherine's late-night shifts at the WVS canteen. Daytime work was all very well, but after nightfall he'd have preferred her to be safely at home. But given the sacrifices that so many were making for the war effort, he didn't feel he had the right to ask her to give them up.

In the three months of their marriage she had continued to work the Saturday-night shift at RAF Lympne every other week, arriving home shortly after midnight. Tonight, however, the hands of the mantel clock stood at half-past one but there was no sign of her.

His stomach tightened, thinking of all the dangers that could befall her. An auto accident? Goodness knew the roads were dangerous in the blackout. A raid? He remembered the JU-88s swooping down on Andrew's base during the first summer of the war, bombing and strafing anything in their path. Then, of course, there were the dangers of crash landings, of accidents with explosives or a stray spark too near a fuel dump …

He paced the sitting room uneasily, unable to settle. Where could she be?

It was going on two o'clock before he heard the puttering of a two-stroke engine in the street outside. _Can't be her_ , he thought; she was always dropped off in an RAF staff car. But when the motor cut off voices drifted in through the open window behind the blackout. "All right? Not too bumpy for you?" A man's voice.

Then Katherine, sounding breathless: "Oh, no. Not at all. It was rather fun, actually. Mind you, I don't know what Christopher is going to say …"

 _What on earth? Who is this man?_ In half-a dozen steps he was in the hall, pulling the sitting-room door shut behind him to keep out the light. He could hear her key turning in the lock and the door swung open. Silhouetted in the faint moonlight were two figures. "Katherine? Who's that with you?"

"Christopher!" She stepped inside, the taller form just behind her. Then a second voice, unexpectedly familiar. "Dad. It's me." The heavy door swung shut.

Foyle flicked the light switch and felt his vague apprehension melt away. Sure enough, there stood his son, as solid and handsome as ever in his blues. "Andrew!"

"Hallo, Dad. Good to see you." The young man removed his hat and hung it on the hall-stand.

"Wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. How did you manage …"

"Talked my way onto a transport flight. Sorry to fall in on you like this."

"No, no, it's fine. But why the bike? And why so late?" His gaze shifted from his son to his wife, taking in her appearance for the first time. She looked unusually disheveled and her shoulders drooped with fatigue. "Katherine, what …?"

"There was an … incident at the base. Caused a bit of fuss. I'm sorry I'm so late, but it couldn't be helped." She was unbuttoning her coat as she spoke, affording him a glimpse of bloodstains on her skirt. He felt a jolt of alarm.

"What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I promise. Just dead on my feet. I'm going up for a bath, if you don't mind." She and Andrew exchanged a look that silently acknowledged the newly forged connection between them. "Goodnight, Andrew."

"'Night. I'll fill you in, Dad." Andrew steered his father into the sitting room.

"What happened?" Foyle asked as soon as the door clicked shut. "What incident?"

"One of the kites lost control on landing and veered off the runway. Hit a fuel truck. Sent up a fireball like the bloody Crystal Palace. Whole place was a shambles for a while." He stripped off his leather flying jacket and tossed it over the back of the settee, then dropped into his customary chair, running his hands through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration.

Foyle chewed his lip. The images conjured by his son's words were unnervingly similar to his earlier fears. "You're all right? You weren't hurt?"

"I'm right as rain, Dad, but Katherine – a friend of her got the chop, a WAAF who was driving the fuel truck. She's pretty upset. It was the girl who usually gives her a lift, so I had to borrow the bike to get us home."

His father grunted and moved over to the drinks tray, where he cracked the seal on the outrageously-priced bottle of single-malt he'd bought in honour of Andrew's visit. Silently he poured a measure, added a splash of water and handed the glass to his son. "Thanks."

Settling into his own chair, Foyle studied the young pilot. His face was thinner than the last time he'd seen him and his eyes shadowed with something more than mere fatigue. "So," he said. "A week's leave. How long has it been since you've had that much time off?"

"God. Can't remember." He took a sip.

"When will you head back to Yorkshire?"

Andrew swirled the amber liquid in his glass, avoiding his father's eyes. "Well, I'm not, as it happens. I've been detached."

Foyle's heart sank. "Oh?"

"I'm being posted to a Spitfire squadron in Norfolk."

His father closed his eyes. He'd always known that the day would come when Andrew would return to an operational billet. Given his experience and his skills in the cockpit, it was inevitable. But this knowledge did not make the news any easier to hear.

"I'm sorry, Dad." His son's voice was husky.

Foyle drew in a breath and fingered his tie. "Well, bound to happen, I suppose. Question is … do you feel ready for it?"

"I think so." Then he pulled a wry face. "Don't suppose I'll really know until I'm in the thick of it, will I?"

* * *

Twenty minutes later Christopher slipped into his bedroom, having seen Andrew upstairs to his new quarters. Katherine, now in her nightdress, was seated at the dressing table brushing her hair. Some evenings he would take the brush from her hand and guide it through the soft waves himself, a tender gesture which often preluded intimacy. Tonight, however, he merely rested his hands on her shoulders, sensing her need for comfort. "Katherine. So sorry about your friend."

She set the brush down and turned to slip her arms round his waist, burying her face in his shirt. "It was Rosemary," she said, her voice muffled. "Oh, Christopher, it's so horribly unfair. One moment she was alive and the next …"

He had never been a man to mouth platitudes, so he just hugged her close, stroking her hair. "I'm very glad you're home."

"You can thank your son for that. He organised it. He's quite the resourceful young man, you know." She leant back far enough to smile tremulously up at him. Tweaking a button on his shirt, she added, "Darling, you really don't have to wait up for me, you know. You can go on to bed on these late nights."

He gave her a look that told her she was wasting her breath, but did not reply. Instead he brushed a curl tenderly back from her forehead, thinking how lovely she was, what a privilege it was to be her husband. Then his hand froze. "What's this? You're hurt!" His finger brushed a bruise on her temple.

"It's nothing, darling. Just a tiny bump from when Andrew pushed me down."

Christopher stiffened. "He did _what_?" Shock made his voice cold.

Katherine blinked in confusion. "He didn't tell you about the crash?"

"He did. But he said nothing about manhandling you!"

"Oh, Christopher, don't be silly! It wasn't like _that_. Andrew was the first person to realise that plane was in trouble. He shouted for everyone to get clear and threw himself over me. It was actually quite gallant."

He stared down at her, trying to take this in. "So you _were_ in danger."

"Well, not really. The rudder was damaged so the plane _could_ have come in our direction. But it veered the other way. Nowhere near us."

Icy fingers closed round his heart. If it had come toward them … _I could have lost both of them._ He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in a tight embrace. "God, Kate," he whispered into her dark hair. It was his private name for her, one reserved for their most intimate moments.

"I'm all right, love," she reassured him, stroking the short curls at the nape of his neck. "I'm _fine_. And Andrew is fine. Quite safe, both of us. Now come to bed."


	4. Chapter 4: Forging a Bond

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 **Part Four: Forging a Bond**

Andrew slept gloriously late next morning. Since joining the RAF he had grown accustomed to early rising and interrupted sleep, but somehow his body seemed to know that he was on holiday. When at last he woke, he rolled over and stretched luxuriously, revelling in the unaccustomed privacy and quiet.

The room was a bit stuffy, so eventually he got up to open the blackout shades, lifting the windows to their widest. The summer air rushed in, sweet and fresh, tinged with the briny scent of the sea. He drew in deep lungfuls, quietly exulting. That salty tang and the cries of the gulls would always mean home to him.

His eyes travelled round the walls of his new abode, pleasantly surprised by what he saw. The last time he'd set foot in this room, directly above his father's, it had held a dusty jumble of unwanted clobber, but someone had gone to a great deal of effort to make it comfortable and inviting. The floor was covered with a rich blue rug – rather worn, perhaps, but cheery – and dark green curtains hung at the windows. It was furnished with a double bed, a tall chest of drawers, a wardrobe and his desk from his room downstairs, a gift from his parents when he'd started grammar school. A lamp stood on the bedside table, a vase of late-summer daisies graced the bureau and his books were arranged neatly in the bookcase. The walls, a dingy yellow in his memory, had been scrubbed to a creamy ivory, and someone had even taken the trouble to hang his pictures. _You are welcome, Andrew,_ the walls seemed to whisper. _You are wanted here. This is your home._

 _What a difference,_ he thought. Long ago this room had been his mother's painting studio and he fancied he could still catch the faintest whiff of linseed oil – another comforting scent that would always be redolent of home to him. Then he noticed the framed photograph on the chest of drawers and moved to pick it up, studying the beloved face. _What would you have made of all this, Mum?_ he asked her silently. _Not just the room, but everything – the war, the raids, my flying …_ One thing he was sure of: Mum would have been unable to cope with something like that crash at the airfield last night. She'd been an emotionally fragile woman, easily given to tears and very dependent on Dad. She'd never have been able to keep her nerve in such a crisis, as Katherine had done.

Katherine. He knew he had her to thank for his room. Dad had no doubt helped her with the heavy bits, but the tasteful arrangement of furniture and ornaments, the careful hanging of pictures, the fresh flowers – all these spoke of a woman's touch. Dad could never have managed it.

He opened the wardrobe and stared at the clothes hanging there: tweed jackets, colourful neckties, knitted waistcoats, baggy trousers. The garments of his Oxford life. He fingered a striped red tie, one he remembered as being one of his favourites, and decided it looked gaudy and ridiculous. He closed the wardrobe. He was allowed to wear civvies on leave, he knew, but doing so felt somehow wrong. He found clean underthings, collected his discarded uniform and went down to wash and dress.

When he emerged from the bathroom he paused on the landing to look round. Both bedroom doors stood open, the rooms empty. Dad's looked much the same, though the bed had been shifted to the other side of the room. But his old room at the back had been transformed with the trappings of a little girl: cuddly toys, hair ribbons, a mahogany jewellery box, a bright patchwork quilt. The wallpaper in both rooms looked noticeably brighter, as though it too had been subjected to a good scrubbing. Even the air smelt fresher and sweeter.

Downstairs he found the house little changed. All the familiar pictures hung in the same places – Mum's watercolours and pastels, Dad's collection of fishing flies, the seascape over the mantelshelf – but again, the overall ambience was cleaner, brighter. The wood panelling of the fireplace glowed with a lustre he hadn't seen in years. Andrew realised he was smiling. It was _home_ , reassuringly familiar and yet lavished with the kind of care it hadn't seen since Mum died. It was _perfect_.

"Good morning!" He turned to see Katherine at the dining-room table, where she was reading the paper over her morning tea. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a log. You?"

"Well enough. I've not been up long myself. Would you like some breakfast? There's a bit of bacon left I can cook up."

"No, toast is fine. Not long until lunchtime, anyway." He took a slice off the rack, spread it thinly with jam and poured himself a cup of tea. Same old brown teapot, thank goodness, like a steadfast old friend. "Where's Dad?"

"He took Cecily to church. He insists I sleep in after I've been on a late shift."

Andrew tried to imagine Dad shepherding a seven-year-old girl about. He couldn't. "So they're getting on, those two?"

"I think so. She's fond of him, and he's very patient with her. I usually take her out to her aunt and cousins for the night when I'm on late at the canteen, but last night she stayed here with Christopher for the first time. His idea. Apparently he took her fishing."

Andrew grinned. "Poor kid. She has no idea what she's letting herself in for."

She laughed, a sweet, melodious sound that made him think of music. "I didn't expect them to catch a thing – Cecily's hardly the quietest child, I must say – but I just looked and there are _five_ fish in the icebox! A miracle, like the Biblical loaves and fishes." She looked quite different to the smartly tailored WVS lady of the night before, Andrew thought, younger and more carefree in a pretty yellow dress flecked with tiny white flowers. Her hair was brushed down in loose dark waves past her shoulders, caught back from her face with combs. _What a pretty woman_ , he thought. _How did old Dad get so lucky?_

He set his cup in its saucer with a tiny clink. "Listen, Katherine," he said. "About my room. I just wanted to say – what's the matter?"

Her smile had vanished, leaving an expression of chagrin in its wake. "I'm glad you brought that up. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about it."

" _What_?"

"About commandeering your bedroom like that. Banishing you to the attic like some poor relation. It must bother you. It's been your room your whole life, hasn't it?" She traced a slender finger round the rim of her cup. "I know this can't be easy for you, your Dad and I marrying. All these changes. The thing is, Andrew … I've been in your shoes. My mother died when I was small and my father remarried when I was at university."

He stared at her, taken aback by this unexpected revelation. "And did his wife take over your bedroom?"

"Oh, nothing so simple. She sold our house." He goggled. "But that's neither here nor there. I just want you to know that I realise how difficult it must be for you. But Cecily – " she broke off, looking chagrined.

"What about her?"

Her expression grew more troubled. "She has nightmares, Andrew. Bad ones. She was only five when she lost her father, and now with all these raids … this is a frightening time to be a child. I just _can't_ put her up on the top floor by herself. She'd be terrified. She often creeps into bed with me in the middle of the night. It's getting better, especially since we moved in here. I think she feels more secure, but even so …"

"Katherine." He stopped the flow of words with a hand on her forearm. "Katherine, it's _fine_. I like it up there. I was just going to say how much I appreciate all the trouble you went to, fixing it up. It looks great."

"Really?" She looked both astonished and grateful.

"Absolutely. Didn't Dad tell you? When I was about sixteen I decided I wanted to move up there. Bigger room, all on my own. Only he wouldn't hear of it."

"Why on earth not?"

"Wanted to keep an eye on me. Thought I'd bunk off and not do my homework - not without cause, I must admit. Anyway, it's taken eight years but I finally managed it. Thanks to you." He raised his cup to her in a mock toast, favouring her with his most charming smile.


	5. Chapter 5: The Intelligence of a Trout

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 **Part Five: The Intelligence of a Trout**

Andrew spent the hour or so after his belated breakfast reacquainting himself with the house. He spotted other changes – extra toothbrushes and feminine toiletries in the bathroom, some children's books in the sitting room, a few new bits of bric-a-brac here and there – but found they didn't bother him nearly as much as he'd expected. He inspected the back garden, where the unsightly bulge of the Anderson was now framed with neat rows of vegetables. Eventually he found himself in the kitchen, which looked tidier than it had in a decade.

More out of habit than hunger he peered in the icebox. Sure enough, there sat Dad's creel, stuffed to the brim with three trout and two sleek grayling. "Impressive catch," he remarked to Katherine, who was peeling potatoes at the sink. "Guess this is lunch, yes?"

"Dinner, more likely. They'll have to wait until Christopher gets home, I'm afraid. One thing I don't do is clean fish."

"And Dad _married_ you?" Andrew recoiled in mock horror. "Surely that was in the marriage vows, wasn't it?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You were there, young man. Do you remember the vicar saying anything about smelly entrails?" He laughed. "No, I've tried, Andrew, but I truly don't have the stomach for it."

He opened the icebox again and retrieved the creel. "Well, there was zero chance that my father's son would be spared precise instruction in the art of cleaning fish. I'll deal with these." He fetched a knife from the dresser and went out to the back garden, smiling wryly. Who would have thought that a day would come when he'd be glad to gut his father's catch?

The job finished, he came back inside to find the fisherman home from church. He had already changed out of his Sunday best and was tucked up in his chair in the sitting room with the Sunday _Times_. "Morning, Dad."

Foyle glanced at the mantel clock. "Afternoon," he said drily, but his eyes were twinkling. The son sat in his own chair and picked up a section of the paper.

"Lunch in ten minutes," Katherine said, coming in with a handful of silverware and starting to lay the table. A delicious smell was wafting from the kitchen. Andrew found himself taken back to the Sundays of his childhood. They had been very much like this – his father reading the paper while mum dished up roast beef with Yorkshire pud, or roast chicken and potatoes. Dad had tried his best after her death, but his cooking never smelled half as mouthwatering. He tried to concentrate on an article about the first American B-17 raid on occupied France, but the strange sense of _déjà vu_ persisted.

A few minutes later he heard Katherine at the foot of the steps, calling up to her daughter to wash up for lunch. Soon after he heard the light tap of feet on the stairs and a small figure appeared in the sitting-room doorway. Cecily, his new stepsister.

She was a delicately formed child with her mother's wide dark eyes and heart-shaped face, her long blonde hair tied back at the crown with a blue ribbon. She hesitated for a moment, one hand fingering the lintel, studying the tall young man sitting in the chair she thought of as her mother's. Folding his paper, Foyle beckoned her over. "Cecily! You remember Andrew, don't you?"

She came forward obediently, offering a small hand to shake. "Hello," she said politely. Her eyes were curious, but he could see shyness in them too. He got to his feet to take the little hand, remembering what her mother had said earlier about her nightmares. Poor kid. This couldn't be easy for her either.

Next thing he knew Katherine was calling them to the table. As they took their seats he felt another reminiscent jolt. Dad, of course, took his usual seat at the head with Andrew on his left; Katherine sat to his right, in his mother's old place. It felt very odd to see another woman in her chair after so many years. The little girl slipped into the seat next to her mother. Dad's eyes flicked round the assembled faces and a pleased expression crept over his face.

Lunch was corned beef fritters, potato dumplings and carrots. Despite the restrictions imposed by rationing Andrew found the food delicious. After two years of indifferent meals in the mess he was poised to appreciate home cooking, and this, simple though it was, did not disappoint.

The conversation at table was a bit stilted at first. Dad asked about his new posting. "Norfolk? Lot of aerodromes being built in East Anglia, from what I read in the papers."

"It's true. Us and the Yanks both. Bombers bases, mostly, but they'll need plenty of fighter support. From there it's a straight shot east across the North Sea to Holland, then Germany. High time we started giving Jerry a dose of his own medicine."

"Where will you be based?"

"Not really supposed to say, Dad. You know that." His father pulled a face, but didn't press.

"When do you have to report?" Katherine asked.

"Sunday. Thought I'd stay here until Friday, then go up to London and spend a night or two with Uncle Charles. He and Aunt Dorothy have been asking me to stay for ages."

"Mmmm. Plenty of time to get you out to the river, then." Foyle's eyes twinkled at his son.

"Is that really necessary? I saw your creel in the icebox. Looks like you're doing fine without me."

"Can't let you forget everything I taught you, can I? Unforgivably remiss of me."

Cecily had been following the adult conversation, her eyes darting from face to face. Dad noticed her confused expression at their banter and tactfully changed the subject back to flying and to the latest war news. Not long after the child cleaned her plate and asked to be excused. They listened to her light tread climbing the stairs. "Thought you said she was a chatterbox," he murmured to his father.

"Usually is. Give her a bit of time."

"She's a bit in awe of you, I think," Katherine told him.

"Me? Why?"

"Oh, _Andrew_. You're a Spitfire pilot, one of those heroes she hears about on the wireless. And this is your house, she knows that. She's the newcomer here. It's a lot for her to take in. She'll come round."

* * *

After lunch he rode the borrowed motorbike back out to the base to return it, standing the owner a pint in thanks. He caught a bus back to Hastings, where he and Dad walked over to pay a call at the Reids'. Hugh and Sylvia made a fuss over him, which he rather enjoyed. Mrs Reid had occasionally stepped in to help out father and son with domestic practicalities after Mum's death, and Andrew had come to regard her as a sort of honourary aunt. Mr Reid had endless questions about aeroplanes and the RAF, a number of which he was unable to answer due to security regulations. The two Reid daughters, now in their teens, peppered him with questions about London and dancing and nightclubs.

Dad's catch appeared on the table that evening as promised. Katherine had stuffed the fish with herbs and roasted them, a delicious change from his father's usual approach of pan-frying his catch. Andrew was generous in his praise, earning an approving glance from Dad.

"Thank you," she replied, "but I think equal praise is due to the fisherman."

Dad's faced softened. "Wull, thanks. Had an able assistant, as it happens." He nodded toward Cecily, whose cheeks went slightly pink.

"What did you think of fishing?" her mother asked her. "Did you like it?"

The child shot Andrew a shy glance, but replied readily enough. "Mmm-hmm. It was _fun_. I got to scoop the fish in the net. They're all floppy and wriggly. And Mr Foyle showed me how to cast, but I'm not very good at it. You have to keep the fly moving, like it's really flying. It made my arm tired."

"It'll come with practise," Dad told her. "Keep at it."

"You have to be very quiet or the fish will hear you and swim away," the little girl continued. "They're very clever. Mr Foyle says never under— _undermust_ –" she looked to him for assistance.

"Underestimate," he prompted.

"Never _underestimate_ the _intumelligence_ of a trout." She gave an emphatic little nod, clearly pleased with herself for remembering this maxim.

A smile spread across Dad's face. "Well said," he told her with unmistakable pride.


	6. Chapter 6: The Rhythms of Home

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 **Part Six: The Rhythms of Home**

 _Monday and Tuesday, 17-18 August 1942_

Over the next several days Andrew found himself hanging round the edges of a household routine of which he was no longer a part. Dad went to work, of course, setting off at a quarter past eight as usual. He was collected not by Sam, who was apparently on holiday this week, but by a curly-haired sergeant with a London accent whom Andrew didn't recognise. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved by her absence; he would very much like to make things up with her, but remembering the icy, hurt look she'd shot him at his father's wedding he didn't rate his chances very highly. Ah, well … he knew he only had himself to blame, and perhaps in time she'd soften.

Katherine, meanwhile, busied herself with her routine of household chores. Once she had returned from queueing for rations she tackled the week's washing. From the window he glimpsed her hanging the clean garments on the clothesline at the bottom of the garden, Cecily at her side handing her clothespegs. Andrew lounged round his bedroom, enjoying the novelty of indolence. He spent much of the morning reading Evelyn Waugh's new war novel _Put Out More Flags,_ which he'd found on the bookshelf in the sitting room. After a few hours of this, however, he put the book aside and set off on a stroll, ready to stretch his legs. He wasn't used to such long periods of inactivity, and was curious to see what changes the war had brought to his home town.

There were a few more bombed-out buildings and plenty of civil defence posters about, but otherwise things looked much as they had when he'd left in the early months of 1941. Had it only been eighteen months ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

* * *

After dinner that evening Andrew slipped out to the back garden for a smoke before it was full dark. When he came back in Katherine was reading aloud to Cecily in the sitting room, the little girl snuggled close to her mother on the settee. Dad sat in his own chair, his newspaper slack in his lap, listening too. The young man hovered in the doorway to the dining room, taking in the scene, forcibly reminded of family evenings in his own childhood. Dad gestured him to his own chair with a nod, silently inviting him to join the family circle.

Katherine's voice was soft and melodious and she read with liveliness and verve, drawing in her listeners. The story was one Andrew didn't recognise, about a red-haired schoolgirl who cracked a boy over the head with her slate when he called her "carrots". Cecily clapped a hand to her mouth at this; Dad's eyes crinkled at the corners in silent amusement. When Katherine set the book aside, telling her daughter it was time to get ready for bed, Andrew picked it up curiously. It was called _Anne of Green Gables_ by someone called Montgomery. "Latest thing from America?" he asked.

"Not quite. It's actually a classic of Canadian children's literature."

"Didn't know there _were_ any classics of Canadian literature," Andrew murmured, half under his breath, but she heard his words and raised an eyebrow archly.

"Now, now. Less of that, if you please," she said in mock severity, her twinkling eyes taking any sting from her words. "We'll have none of your colonial snobbery here, young man." Andrew grinned back, remembering the impassioned anti-imperialist rantings of some of the left-wing types he'd encountered at Oxford. At least Katherine had a sense of humour. She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder as she rose to follow her daughter upstairs

Dad caught his eye and gave him one of his upside-down smiles, understated as always, but the son could read both amusement and affection in his eyes. He nodded toward the chessboard, which he had readied on the little table beside him. "Fancy a game?"

* * *

The house was quieter on Tuesday, as Katherine was on duty at the base. She took Cecily with her to stay with her cousins while she worked, leaving Andrew with the house to himself. He finished his book and then went for another walk, feeling vague and purposeless. Dark clouds hovered on the horizon, so he thought he'd better get his outing in before the skies opened.

This time his footsteps carried him past his old grammar school. He expected the place to be shut tight in August, but to his surprise he was hailed by his old headmaster coming out of the gate. "Foyle! Good heavens, can that be you, lad?"

The young pilot snapped to attention, his hand flying up reflexively to straighten his tie in a long-forgotten schoolboy gesture. "Mr Braithwaite! How are you, sir?"

"Very well. And you? Flight lieutenant, I see! Doing your bit for King and country. Well done, Foyle!" The older man beamed with a warmth that was quite absent from Andrew's memories of him. Before he knew it, he was being swept into the headmaster's office for a catch-up chat and a glass of sherry. Braithwaite inquired into everything Andrew had done since leaving school, from Oxford to the Volunteer Reserve to active service. His interest was flattering, especially since Andrew remembered him as a remote, impersonal figure, more concerned with maintaining discipline than with the ambitions and personal lives of his pupils.

After their visit he spent some time wandering the school halls. The scuffed floorboards, the smells of chalk and pencil and old wooden desks, the dust motes dancing in the muted light streaming in through the high windows, all triggered a powerfully nostalgic response. The history master's droning voice, the bland taste of overcooked lunches in the dinner-hall, the murmured "amen" from of hundreds of young voices at the morning assembly, all flooded over him in waves.

A peek in the chapel brought back long hours of choir rehearsal, singing until his throat ached. How happy he'd been when his childish treble had broken and released him from the tedium! Looking out the window at the games pitch recalled the joys of playing football and rugby in the crisp winter air, the shouts from the boys when a goal was scored. As though in a vision, the faces of long-forgotten schoolmates rose up before him, one after another. Where were they now, all those boys? In uniform, most of them. Scattered to the four corners of the earth, in ships and tanks and aeroplanes, fighting for England as he was fighting. And dying, some of them, as Rex had died. Rex, with whom he had played conkers with chestnuts dropped from that great spreading tree in the corner of the schoolyard. _Rex ..._

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, then left the school and continued his walk. The rain was coming down steadily, but he barely noticed.


	7. Chapter 7: Ice-cream and Bonfires

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 **Part Seven: Ice-cream and Bonfires**

Andrew was quieter than usual at dinner that night. He saw Dad's knowing eyes flicker over his face once or twice, taking the measure of his mood, but he asked no questions. Instead, he addressed his wife. "Was that a letter from America that came this morning?"

"Yes, it was. From Eleanor. She says she's posted another parcel."

"Another one? Didn't you just get one from her last week?"

"No, that was from Marian. Nylons and perfume. Eleanor says she's sending clothes for Cecily, plus some linens. And soap and toothpaste."

"This really isn't necessary," Foyle said. His masculine pride was just a tiny bit stung by the largesse. Yes, things might be a bit short in Britain, but they were getting by well enough, all things considered.

"I've told them that, but it doesn't seem to make any difference." To Andrew she added, "Ever since America came into the war all my college friends have been sending me boxes of supplies. You'd think I was marooned on the frontier a hundred miles from the nearest trading post. It's very thoughtful of them, even though a few of their ideas about what constitutes necessities are fairly wide of the mark."

Her husband gave a grunt that was nearly a snort. "Like French perfume. What was it? Chanel No. 5?"

"Shalimar."

"Mmm. Doesn't suit you at all."

"I have to agree. Gives me a headache, unfortunately. Far too strong."

"Shalimar? I think I know that one," Andrew said, remembering a heady, alluring scent on a very posh girl he'd danced with at an end-of-term ball at Oxford. "What will you do with it? Be worth a fortune on the black market."

Dad gave him a withering look. "Really, Andrew, I hardly think my wife's going to engage in illegal activities, thank you."

"The WVS is holding a raffle next month to raise funds for a new ambulance. I'll donate it as a prize," Katherine said diplomatically. "But do be fair, Christopher. Not _all_ my friends send fripperies. What about all those blankets Helen shipped over from the Boston Red Cross? St. Luke's was delighted to get them."

He conceded the point with good grace. "Raffle's a good idea. No doubt they'll sell a lot of tickets."

Cecily, who had been following this conversation, spoke for the first time. "I wish they'd send us some ice-cream instead of all those blankets and things."

All three adults smiled. "That would be nice," her mother said, "but there are more important things. The soldiers need blankets."

"But they have ice-cream _everywhere_ in America," the little girl went on. "I remember. _Chocolate_ ice-cream."

"Have you been to America?" Andrew asked, curious. Her accent was pure English, so he'd assumed she'd grown up in Britain.

She looked a little surprised to be addressed directly by him, but answered promptly. "Uh-huh. We used to live there."

"What's it like?"

She set down her fork and sat a little straighter in her chair, obviously pleased to be the focus of his attention. "Well, they have a holiday with fireworks. And parades. What's it called, Mummy?"

"The Fourth of July. Independence Day."

"And they don't have a blackout," the little girl went on. "They have streetlamps on all the roads that come on every night. And at Christmas they have coloured lights everywhere, and huge Christmas trees covered in fairy lights right outside where everyone can see them."

"But we have all those here," Andrew protested, a little indignant. "Streetlights. Christmas trees. And what about Guy Fawkes? We have jolly fireworks and parades, bonfires too. You _must_ have seen - " He broke off at her baffled expression and turned accusing eyes to Katherine. She and Dad wore identical looks of chagrin.

"She doesn't remember, Andrew," Katherine said softly. "She was only four when the war started, and we spent the year before that in the States."

Andrew only half-listened as Katherine gently explained to her daughter how the war had changed life in England and that America, too, now had blackouts and rationing since they had joined the fight. _Has it really been four years since the last proper Bonfire night?_ he thought. _Or since we had Christmas lights?_ A chill went over him as he realised that if Cecily couldn't remember these things, then neither could any other child of her age. Or younger. A whole generation was growing up in this bleak world of blackouts and shortages and no celebrations, with no memory of anything different.

* * *

After dinner Andrew walked down to the Coach and Horses for a pint. His new realisation, coupled with the nostalgia stirred by his visit to his old school, had left him more disturbed than he cared to admit. He fell in with some aircrew chaps at the bar. An hour or two of flying talk, buying rounds in turn, distracted him from his melancholy, and he turned his steps for home in better spirits.

He hung up his cap and tunic and went into the sitting room, where he found Katherine alone on the settee, an open book on her lap. "Dad not here?"

"He's just tucking Cecily in." The chessboard, he saw, contained not the chess set, but the remains of game of draughts. Katherine followed his glance. "He's been teaching her. Working up to chess. I'm not sure how that's going to work, however, as he usually lets her win."

He was in the middle of replying when he heard his father's step descending the stairs. There was something odd about Dad's expression, Andrew thought as he came into the room. A muscle in the side of his face was working, as though he were suppressing some strong emotion. "What is it?" Katherine asked.

He looked at her. "She … asked if she can call me 'Dad'. Like - " his eyes flitted to his son " – like Andrew."

Katherine caught her breath. "Oh, Christopher. _Finally_."

Andrew looked from one to the other. "You mean she hadn't - " Thinking back, he realised he'd heard Cecily address Dad as 'Mr Foyle' several times, which seemed odd now he came to think of it.

"Well, no," Katherine said, her voice a little tremulous. "She got upset when someone suggested she call him 'Daddy', right after our wedding. Stephen – her father – he was always 'Daddy'. She didn't like 'Papa', and 'Father' seemed too formal. Nothing seemed quite right."

"Knew she'd work it out," Dad said. "Just needed a bit of time to get comfortable with it." He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but Andrew could tell that he was very moved.


	8. Chapter 8: A Walk by the Sea

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 **Part Eight: A Walk by the Sea**

 _Wednesday 19 August 1942_

Andrew woke next day to an especially fine summer morning. Yesterday's rain had been replaced with blue skies and bright sunshine, much too nice to stay indoors. After breakfast he went for another long walk round Hastings, letting his feet carry him where they would. He rambled aimlessly for quite a while without paying any attention to the time. Eventually he turned into the high street near home to see his stepmother emerging from the greengrocer with a basket over her arm. "Hello," he called, coming to join her. "Shopping all done?"

"It is, what there is of it," she replied, smiling up at him.

"Where's Cecily?"

"Berrying with her Brownie troop. And what have you been about?"

"Just having a look round. Care to walk a bit? It's a lovely day." She nodded her assent and fell into step beside him. They walked down the steep hills until they came to the seafront. Most of the beaches were still blocked by long tangles of concertina wire, but fortunately the promenade was open. They strolled contentedly along, saying little at first, enjoying the sea breeze, the gentle wash of the surf below and the sun sparkling on the water.

"Nothing so glorious as an English summer day," Katherine sighed, drawing in a deep breath of the salty air. "I do love it here. Do you miss it, being away?"

"Sometimes. When I have time to think about it. Not so much when I was up at Oxford, but since I joined up … nowhere else seems quite like home."

"I can well imagine. I've lived in a lot of places, but this one is special."

"How did you come to Hastings?" Andrew had started to wonder about the circumstances that had brought her and Dad together.

Something in her face clouded over. "Well, after my husband's ship was lost I needed to find somewhere to settle. His sister and her family live in Battle. She invited us to stay with her for a bit and I decided this might be a good place for Cecily and me."

"You couldn't go back home? To wherever you were living before the war?"

"Well … no. We didn't really have a home. Stephen, my husband – he was an historian. He relocated nearly every year." She briefly sketched her first husband's nomadic career, moving from one temporary university post to another, never securing a tenured position that would allow them to put down roots. "We spent the last year before the war in Pennsylvania, but came back so Stephen could join up. We were in Plymouth when … when we got word that his ship had been lost."

Andrew began to worry that he'd stepped over a line. "Look, I don't mean to pry. If you'd rather not talk about this, I understand."

She smiled reassuringly. "No, no, it's all right. We're family now, aren't we? Ask what you like."

"Well … how did you and Dad meet?"

"He hasn't told you?"

"No. Well, you know Dad … likes to keep things to himself."

"So I've discovered. We met … well, I suppose you'd have to say it was in a professional capacity. Last autumn Cecily disappeared one afternoon. Vanished into thin air. I was frantic, of course, and went to the police. Your dad found her."

"Had she wandered off?" Andrew asked, thinking of a few of his own youthful misadventures.

"Nothing so simple. A man had lured her away with a false story. Next day I had a phone call demanding ransom. It was ..." She trailed off, looking stricken.

Andrew halted mid-step to stare at her in horror. "Someone _kidnapped_ her?" It beggared belief. "My God. Did he hurt her?"

"No, thank God. Christopher got to the bottom of it quickly enough. Brought her home the next evening, safe and sound."

"Ruddy hell, Katherine, that's … _unspeakable_." The thought of someone threatening harm to that sweet little girl was appalling.

"It was … a nightmare. I don't think I'd have got through it without your father, Andrew. He didn't know me at all but he was just … wonderful. Kind and capable and reassuring. I couldn't have been more grateful. So when it was all over and he invited me to dinner, of course I said yes." She began to walk again and he fell into step beside her, shaking his head a little. It was hardly the sort of story he'd expected to hear, but it went a long way toward explaining how his introverted father had opened himself up to love again after ten lonely years.

Their walk had carried them from Hastings into St. Leonard's. Here the promenade came to an end, giving way to a footpath that ran over the chalky clifftops. In the distance a rocky promontory jutted out into the sea, capped with the mast of a Chain Home station standing tall against the blue sky. "This is such a pretty spot," Katherine said, stopping by the low stone wall to take in the view. "There's a painting in the hall at home that always puts me in mind of it."

Andrew shot her a puzzled look. Surely she must know … but then, perhaps not. "It _is_ this spot," he told her. "My mother painted it. Didn't you know?"

Katherine gaped at him. "Your mother? Really? She painted? Christopher never said."

"Yes, quite a lot. Watercolours, mostly, but sometimes pastels. And a few oils."

"My goodness. I had no idea. Which ones are hers?"

"Oh, lots. The watercolours in the hall, that seascape over the mantel, the landscape with the wildflowers in the dining room, those still lifes in the kitchen. And the one of the fishing boat in my room."

"And that wonderful sketch of you as a boy, playing on the beach? On the upstairs landing? That must be hers." Katherine's face was aglow with interest.

"Yes, that too."

"Oh, _Andrew_. She was very talented, wasn't she? And what a wonderful legacy she left you."

Andrew had never really thought about his mother's artistic gifts; to him, painting had simply been what Mum did, just as other boys' mums knitted or gardened or played the piano. Now, though, he felt unexpectedly chuffed at Katherine's praise. "She used the attic room as her studio, you know, with the skylight. She loved the southern light. When I was small I'd play up there for hours while she painted."

Her face softened. "No wonder you like it up there." He nodded. "What was she like, Andrew? If you don't mind my asking?"

Andrew was surprised. "No, I don't mind." He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken at length of his mother, even with Dad, but he found the prospect of sharing his memories more pleasant than distressing. He leaned back against the low stone parapet and pushed his hands into his pockets, searching for words. "She was artistic – always leaving little sketches on shopping lists and things. Liked to go for walks, looking for new places to paint. She was in the WI and did the flowers for the church altar guild. She was … a real homebody. Quite dependent upon Dad, I think, and a bit nervous and easily worried. I can't imagine how she'd have coped with the war, to tell you the truth."

Katherine nodded, absorbing his words. "And … how did she die? Was it an accident?"

He shook his head. "Typhoid." The word hung in the air for a long moment. "I was thirteen. Dad … it was tough on both of us, but he just sort of withdrew into himself. Like a … a turtle. Threw himself into his work and didn't talk about her." He broke off, suddenly worried he might have said too much.

She nodded. "That sounds exactly like him. In time I hope to break down those walls, get him to open up a bit. It can't be healthy, bottling his feelings up the way he does."

"You already are," Andrew told her. "He's opening up already. I can see it. I haven't seen him smile so much since before Mum died. It's good to see."

She looked touched at the praise. "I do hope so, Andrew. I want very much to make him happy."

"I think you are," he told her. "Really." Then, wanting to lighten the mood, he nodded toward the Pavilion, just visible in the distance, Union Jack snapping gaily from its roof in the fresh sea breeze. "Look, I'm starving. How about some lunch?" At her smile of assent he offered her his arm and swept her off in search of a meal.


	9. Chapter 9: Sea Glass

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 **Part Nine: Sea Glass**

 _Thursday 20 August 1942_

Next morning Andrew was sitting at his desk, sorting idly through some old letters and papers in the drawer, when he came upon a sheaf of leaves tucked under an old school exercise book. Unfolding it, he found a collection of poems he'd scribbled in years long past, mostly unfinished verses and random couplets about the sea, the sky, or the charms of some long-forgotten schoolboy crush. The callow sentiments seemed as alien to him now as the garish Oxford clothes hanging in his wardrobe. God, had he ever been that young, that naïve?

He glanced up to see Cecily peeking round the edge of the doorway. "Hallo," he said, smiling at her as he returned the poems to the drawer. Her eyes widened and she ducked back a bit. "It's all right, you can come in," he told her.

"Mummy said I shouldn't bother you," she replied, looking curious but wary.

"You're not."

She edged across the threshold and looked round, taking in the cheerful room. "It's nice up here," she said.

"I think so."

She moved over to the window. "Oh, look, you can see for _miles_ up here. There's the church and the high street and the cinema. Even the sea!"

"Yes. I always liked coming up here to look at the view." He nearly came to join her, but thought better of it. She was still a little shy with him. Better not to push in.

After a minute she turned away from the window. "Is that your Mummy?" she asked gravely. Her eyes had fallen on the photograph of Rosalind on the desk.

He reached for it. "Yes." She came closer to examine it, stroking the silver frame tentatively with a small finger.

"Did she die?"

He nodded. "A long time ago."

"Was she bombed?"

"No. There wasn't any war then. She got sick."

She gave a small nod, absorbing his words. Her solemn gaze shifted from the photograph to his face. As he was still seated, they were almost on a level. "Do you still miss her?" she asked, her childish voice very soft.

He nodded, thinking that her eyes looked much too serious for one so young. Then, to his surprise, she turned and left the room, her footsteps padding quickly down the flight of steps. Before he had time to wonder at her departure she was back, clutching a polished wooden frame to her chest. She turned it to face him. "This is my Daddy," she said. "He was drownded. The Germans sank his ship."

Understanding the significance of this gesture, Andrew respectfully studied the photograph. It showed a fortyish man with fair hair and a square jaw, looking very much the scholar in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. His resemblance to his daughter was marked. "You look like him," Andrew told her. "I'm sorry he died. You must miss him."

Cecily set the picture down next to the one of Rosalind, making a sad little shrine. "So if my Mummy is married to your Dad," she asked, sounding thoughtful now, "what does that make us?"

"Well … stepbrother and stepsister." It was, he realised, the first time he'd characterised their relationship in those terms.

"It does?"

"Absolutely. That's the nice bit. I always wanted a little sister."

This wasn't strictly true; he remembered asking Mum for a little brother when he was about four or five. But it seemed to please her. "You _did_?" A slow smile brightened her face. _She's going to be as pretty as her mother someday,_ he thought, glimpsing the future beauty beneath the childish innocence.

"Sure did. Did you ever want a brother?"

She shook her head, her eyes beginning to dance impishly. "No, I want a kitten. But … a brother is nice too."

Andrew couldn't help it; he laughed. "I should hope so."

He felt a sudden desire to do something nice for her, to cement this tentative connection they'd begun to forge. He tried to remember the special treats of his boyhood. Buy her an ice-cream? No chance, there was none to be had. The Ferris wheel on the Eastbourne Pier? No, the amusements had all been shut down in 1940. The circus? Impossible; the war had put an end to those too. Bloody hell, there must be _something_ …

His thoughts were interrupted by his stepmother's voice calling up the stairs. "Cecily? Where are you?"

"Up here, Mummy," the little girl called back.

They heard Katherine's light step ascending. She appeared in the doorway clad in her WVS uniform, looking slightly ruffled. " _There_ you are! That was Aunt Sarah on the phone just now. Your cousin Theo's come out in spots and she has to take him to the doctor. I'm afraid you can't go there today."

"But I want to play with Polly!"

"I'm sorry, Cecily. Aunt Sarah has her hands full and I won't risk you getting sick. There's nothing else for it; I'll have to stay home."

"No need for that," Andrew said. "Leave her with me."

"Oh, Andrew, that's very kind of you, but I couldn't ask that. You're on holiday."

"Not at all. I've got nothing on, anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! No worries." And then it came to him, the perfect amusement for a summer's day. While most of the beaches were inaccessible, blocked off with anti-invasion bollards and huge tangles of concertina wire, there was an open bit down on the Stade where the fishing boats were launched. Locals could use it as long as they stayed clear of the fleet. "We could go down to the beach."

Cecily gave a little bounce of excitement. "Oh, yes! Can we, Mummy? Please?"

It took a bit of persuading, but once he'd reassured Katherine that he'd keep a close eye on the child, she gave her consent and hurried off to catch her bus to the air base.

* * *

Andrew and Cecily had a marvellous time on their seaside outing. The water was cold, but they swam and splashed in the gentle rollers until Cecily's lips turned blue. They retreated to the beach then, chasing each other through the ankle-deep surf and and kicking up great sprays, until they warmed up enough in the sunshine to have another go at swimming. He taught her how to skip stones over the surface of the sea, laughing at her squeal of delight when she mastered the trick. Then he swung her through the air, her braids flying, to yet more shouts of glee.

She was fascinated by his stories of his boyhood adventures, especially his account of exploring St. Clements' Caves with his mates. She was eager to do the same, but he knew that the caves had been kitted out with rows of bunks and turned into a giant air-raid shelter, transforming the spooky depths from a smugglers' trove into a makeshift dormitory. This news came as a disappointment, but she was easily distracted by watching a fishermen beach his boat directly on the pebbly shore as they had done for centuries.

When they grew hungry he bought fish and chips from the chippy which they ate out of twists of newsprint. After he'd finished he lay back on the shingle, gazing up at the clouds scudding across the endless blue sky and listening to the ever-present cries of the gulls. God, he hadn't done this since he was a boy. For a few hours he'd completely forgotten about the war, about flying ops and constant danger and the ever-present spectre of fear and grief. With his small stepsister he'd rediscovered the joys of playing on a sunny beach, of the innocence and enthusiasm of childhood that he'd thought he'd left far behind.

Down at the water's edge Cecily was hunting for shells. The tide was going out, so she waded through the edge of the gentle surf, crouching to pick through the shingle. When she found one that struck her fancy, she tucked it carefully in the pocket of her dress. He pushed himself up on his elbows to watch her, thoroughly engrossed in her task. Then she bent and picked up another object left behind by a receding wave. She stood still, turning it over in her hands, her eyes widening. She looked up and caught his eye, then brought the object to him and held it out. "What is it?" she asked. "Is it … a jewel?"

It was a stonelike object of a rich green, just big enough to fit in the centre of her palm. It was smooth to the touch, a nearly perfect heart shape, but its depths were cloudy, not translucent. "Ah. It's sea glass," Andrew explained. "Long ago someone threw a bottle into the sea and it broke into bits. The waves and water beat on it until it became smooth, like this." He dropped it back in her hand.

"That's … amazing," she said, sounding awestruck. "I never knew a broken bottle could turn into something so pretty." She offered it again. "You keep it."

"No, no, you found it. It's yours. A treasure from the sea."

"But I want you to have it. A present. For good luck. You can take it with you when you go away."

He looked at her – damp, bedraggled frock pulled over her swimming costume, hair escaping from its braids, cheeks pink from the sun and exercise – and thought that she looked as grubby and carefree as a child ought to look after a day at the seaside. But in her dark eyes he glimpsed a hint of solemnity, an understanding of the world and its dangers that belied her tender years. He felt something twist in his chest. "All right," he told her, accepting her gift. "I will. I'll carry it in my pocket when I fly. To remember our day at the beach."

* * *

In the late afternoon, when the wind freshened and grew chilly, the two weary adventurers made their way back to Steep Lane. The pair was sunburnt and rather footsore from walking barefoot on the pebbles and shingle, so they were glad enough to reach the white house at the crest of the hill. He sent Cecily upstairs to bathe and change straightaway and headed for the kitchen, intending to scrub the worst of the dirt off his hands while waiting for the bathroom to be free.

He stopped short on the threshold at the sight of his father and Katherine standing together at the sink, their backs to him. Dad was close behind her, his arms round her waist, his face buried in the crook of her neck. "That's my girl," he murmured, in tones more sensual than any his son had ever heard from him. His wife caught her breath and leaned back against him with a purr of appreciation, one hand coming up to caress the back of his neck.

Andrew ducked hastily back to the dining room, his face burning. On some level he'd known that his father's new marriage must include a physical aspect, but it wasn't something he'd allowed himself to dwell upon. To see it demonstrated so baldly came as a bit of a shock. After a long moment, though, his embarrassment began to fade, overtaken by a sort of amused respect. So old Dad wasn't quite past it after all, despite the thinning hair and his looming fiftieth birthday?

He heard the water begin to flow into the tub upstairs. The spooning couple must have heard it, too, because a moment later Dad appeared in the kitchen doorway, one hand straightening his tie and looking, Andrew thought, like the cat who'd had extra helpings of cream. "Ah. You're back." His eyes flicked over his son's ruddy face and dirty beach clothes. "Good time?"

"Yes." Andrew tried to sound nonchalant, wondering if his ears were as red as they felt.

"Right …" Dad's eyebrows went up and his mouth quirked in an enigmatic little half-smile. _He knows I saw_ , the son thought, _and he's not bothered about it_. "Well. Best smarten yourself up, then."

"What for?"

The older man's expression widened into a real smile. "Well, seeing as it's your last night home, Andrew … thought I'd take everyone out to dinner."


	10. Chapter 10: The Shelter

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 **Part Ten: The Shelter**

Sometime deep in the night Andrew was jerked from slumber by the insistent wail of an air-raid siren. He pulled his pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound. "Bugger off, you jerry bastards," he mumbled sleepily. "I'm on holiday."

But there was no chance he'd be able to ignore the alarm and go back to sleep. Dad's voice was calling up the stairs, his voice urgent. "Andrew, get down here!"

Cursing under his breath, he threw back the covers, yanked off his pyjamas and fumbled into trousers and an old jumper. Shoving his bare feet into a pair of plimsolls, he thumped downstairs to find Katherine, wearing a coat over her nightdress, urging a sleepy Cecily down to the front hall. Dad hovered just behind them, fully dressed and with torch in hand. He pushed his son ahead of him, hurrying him through the kitchen to the back door.

The steady drone of bomber engines was audible as they picked their way to the bottom of the garden in the bobbing torchlight. The reality of their destination penetrated Andrew's consciousness and he felt his pulse quicken. The dome of the Anderson shelter loomed ahead, rising out of the garden like some primeval beast rearing to strike. His father helped his wife and stepdaughter down the steps and through the yawning maw of the door. "Dad," Andrew said thickly. "Dad, I – I don't think I can …"

But Foyle wasn't listening. "No time to argue, Andrew," he said, and propelled his son into the shelter with a firm shove to his shoulders.

The air inside the Anderson was musty and smelt of bitumen and damp. It was very dark for a few moments until Katherine lit a paraffin lamp dangling from a hook in the ceiling. Dad slid a corrugated iron slab over the doorway and fastened it in place with a sturdy crossbar, blocking out the sound of the approaching bombers. "All in? Good." He clicked off the torch.

The interior of the shelter looked rather different to the last time Andrew had seen it, when he'd helped Dad dig the hole over the Christmas holidays during his last year at Oxford. He remembered it as an empty, echoing cylinder of corrugated iron resembling nothing so much as an oversized food tin. Now two benches ran the length of the space, both cushioned with old mattresses. The dirt floor had been surfaced with cement while the curving walls and ceiling were covered with hessian bags, giving the place a surprisingly cosy air. A crate at the far end held an old kettle, a hot-plate and a biscuit tin. Katherine was busy extracting blankets from a box underneath one of the benches, which she tucked over the half-asleep child. Foyle settled onto the opposite bench, gesturing Andrew to the place next to him. "Sit down, son."

But he didn't sit. Instead he stood very still in the middle of the space, the centre being the only place where he could stand upright without hitting his head. His palms were sweating, his ears buzzing and his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest. None of the humble creature comforts that someone – Katherine, most likely – had introduced to the space could alter its intolerably confining dimensions: six-and-a-half feet long, four-and-a-half feet wide and barely six feet high. He simply couldn't bear it. He had to get out.

Andrew's claustrophobia was his secret shame, and a closely guarded secret. The weakness didn't often trouble him, despite the frequency of air raids over the past three years. The shelter at Oxford had been a cavernous space in the college basement, while those on the various bases where he'd been posted had likewise been designed to shelter dozens. But even those had felt uncomfortably confining. He needed openness, light, _air_. It was one reason why he'd been drawn to flying as his wartime service, rather than to the army or navy. The idea of being stuck inside a ship – or worse yet, a tank – was unendurable.

Yet now he found himself sealed inside this miniscule corrugated tin in his father's back garden, packed in with the others like so many sardines. If it hadn't been for his stepmother and stepsister he'd have pushed Dad aside and forced his way out, but their presence stayed him. What would Katherine think of him, panicking like this? And Cecily? He'd frighten her half to death.

He _had_ to get hold of himself. He drew in several deep, shuddering breaths, fighting for control, before forcing himself to sit. His head bumped the paraffin lamp and set it swaying. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Dad and Katherine were both watching him closely, their faces etched with concern. He averted his gaze, mortified, and concentrated on modulating his breathing. _In slowly … hold … out slowly_. It helped; in time his palms stopped sweating and the buzzing in his ears receded, though his stomach still was still twisted in knots.

"Would anyone like tea?" he heard Katherine ask softly. He shook his head, not trusting his voice. Dad declined also, nodding at Cecily, who had fallen back to sleep with her head in her mother's lap. "Best not disturb her."

At least five minutes passed before Andrew felt able to speak normally, though his pulse was still skipping erratically. "Didn't realise you actually used this thing," he ventured, trying to sound nonchalant. "Thought you just went down to the cellar."

"Well, the Luftwaffe's been favouring us with their attentions quite a bit since the spring." Dad's voice was light, with that touch of dry understatement that was so characteristic of him. "Seems prudent to make use of the shelter, as we've got it." His eyes flicked to his wife and stepdaughter on the opposite bunk and Andrew understood what he was leaving unsaid. He might have been willing to take chances with his own welfare before his remarriage, but now he had their safety to consider.

"Do you get many raids on base?" Katherine asked gently.

"Not at Church Fenton, no. Jerry has better targets in the north. And before, when I was operational, I'd be scrambled when he came calling, not sheltering." He paused. "The thing is … this just feels wrong. I don't _belong_ down here. I should be up _there_ , fighting those bas- " he caught the oath just in time – "fighting them off."

He saw Dad's eyes meet Katherine's again and was reminded of how his parents had often communicated in just this way, whole conversations encompassed in a glance. What must it be like, he wondered, to be so close to another person that you could read each other like that? "Andrew, you can't always be - " Dad broke off, his face suddenly tense. He was listening intently. Then Andrew heard it too: the steadily decreasing whine of falling bomb. In the split second before it hit Katherine hunched protectively over the sleeping Cecily while Foyle reflexively threw an arm round his son's shoulders, pulling his head down.

The blast made the ground shake, setting the lamp swinging again and making their shadows dance eerily in the enclosed space. Bits of earth sifted down from the joints in the iron roof. It hadn't been terribly close – several hundred yards away, Andrew guessed – nor did he think it had been a particularly big bomb. They straightened, brushing off the dust, as Cecily jerked awake with a frightened cry. "It's all right," Katherine crooned, but the little girl pushed her mother's arm away and flung herself across the narrow space into Foyle's lap. "Dad!" she whimpered, clutching at him in terror. He gathered the child to him, murmuring soothingly, the only clue to his surprise the brief glance he exchanged with his wife.

Andrew got up to allow them space on the narrow bench, fascinated by this unusual view of his father. He hadn't seen Dad like this since he was small, jerked out of sleep by childish nightmares about monsters. _No_ , he corrected himself, not since the times Dad had sat by him, rubbing his back as he sobbed into his pillow in the days after they'd buried Mum. As he'd worked through his grief and matured, such moments between father and son had naturally ceased, but now the memories came flooding back in a rush of tenderness. He'd forgotten how comforting Dad could be. He looked at Katherine, also watching the pair, and saw some of his own feelings reflected on her face. She smiled tremulously up at him and patted the bunk beside her. He sat and let her spread the blanket over his lap.

In time Cecily's sobs quieted and she fell back to sleep, snuggled close to Foyle's chest under the old eiderdown he'd tucked round her. Andrew was still struggling with his claustrophobia; the bomb blast hadn't frightened him, but it could hardly be expected to have a calming effect on his already jangled nerves. The anxiety came in waves, cresting and receding; just when he thought he'd mastered it another swell would rise up in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. Katherine noticed his uneven breaths and shifted closer, resting a gentle hand over his clenched fist under the blanket. He let it stay. He'd have gone to the rack rather than admit it, but the human contact grounded him, helped keep the panic at bay.

They spoke little over the next hour or so as they huddled, quietly taking comfort in each other's presence. When the all-clear sounded Andrew was on his feet in an instant, wrenching open the door to admit a welcome blast of cool night air. _At last_ , he thought as he climbed up the steps. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette but found none, so he contented himself with drawing in great draughts of oxygen, letting it fill his lungs and calm his frazzled nerves.

Behind him the others emerged from the shelter, first Katherine with the torch, then Dad, carrying the sleeping girl. They began to make their way back up to the house. _My family,_ he thought, and realised hazily that his definition of the word had shifted. Long ago, when he was small, "family" had meant Mum, Dad and himself; then, for the longest time, just himself and Dad. Now, in less than a week, the meaning had expanded to encompass Katherine and Cecily. He shook his head in wonder. After a few more deep breaths, he fell in into step behind them.

Once inside he locked the back door, then splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen tap _. I'd rather go up against a squadron of 109s singlehanded than endure another two hours cooped up like that,_ he thought. He reached for a tea-towel to dry his face, then froze. The prospect of getting back into a Spitfire cockpit suddenly took on new significance.

He switched off the kitchen light and started for the stairs, though he didn't think he'd be able to get back to sleep any time soon. He expected that everyone else would have returned to bed, but Katherine was standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the newel post. "Waiting for something?" he asked.

"Your father. He'll be going out in a minute."

"Now? What for?"

She moved a few feet away, lowering her voice as if trying to keep from being overheard. "To check up on the ARPs, make sure everyone's up to scratch."

"Why? He's not in charge of the ARP, is he?"

"Not officially, but … a few months ago an ARP got careless and didn't check a bomb site thoroughly enough. Turns out there was an old man trapped in the rubble. You know him, Andrew. He feels responsible for every last soul in this town. Wants to make sure they're safe."

"Does he do this every time there's a raid?"

"Only when we've heard bombs falling. It really worries me."

"Why? Doesn't sound too dangerous."

"But it could be! The other week he helped rescue a family who were trapped in their basement. The whole house could have collapsed on him! And then there are UXBs …" She drew in deep breath and let it out. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to him. I've already lost -" She broke off, folding her lips tightly and crossing her arms across her chest. He had no difficulty finishing her sentence. _I've already lost one husband to this war._

Just then they heard Dad's tread descending the stairs. Sure enough, he took his coat and hat from the hall-stand. "You're going out?" Andrew asked.

"Just a quick walk round the neighbourhood. Won't be long." He took the torch from his wife and moved to the door, giving her arm a reassuring little pat as he passed. "Don't wait up."

"I'll come with you," Andrew said, reaching for his flight jacket. "Could do with some fresh air." There was no mistaking Katherine's grateful look as they slipped out the door.

The smell of smoke hung in the air; a distant glow told of an incendiary explosion down near the seafront. Dad headed in that direction, Andrew falling in step beside him. "So what are you checking up on?" he asked his father when they reached the bottom of Steep Lane.

"Just making sure everything's under control. We've had incidents of looting at bomb sites. Best to keep an eye."

The fire, in a disused stable block behind Carlisle Parade, was already under control by the time they reached it. The old timbers had burned quickly, but AFS had the situation well in hand and the warden assured them that all the residents in the street were accounted for. Once Foyle had determined that everything was in order they walked over to the front, where a gentle breeze wafted clean, salty air in from the sea. They stood in companionable silence on the promenade, watching the moonlight dancing on the water and listening to the gentle wash of waves on the beach below. "Sorry this happened," Dad said finally, breaking the stillness. "No raids for a week, then we get one your last night home."

"You know what, Dad? I'm not." Andrew drew in a deep breath. He was leaning forward, his hands resting on the stone wall. "All this time I never knew what it was like. Being jerked out of sleep and scuttling for the shelter, hiding away underground like rats in a cave. It's … _indecent_."

Foyle looked at his son, eyebrows raised. Andrew went on, "Until tonight I never really thought about what this war is doing to ordinary people. To _children_. How are they supposed to make sense of it? Look at Cecily. Terrified out of her wits, poor kid. It's not right. She shouldn't have to grow up in a world like this."

"No child should. But millions are."

"But they bloody well shouldn't _have_ to. When we first got down in the Anderson I thought I'd go mad – not from the bombs, you understand, but just from being shut in like that. But then I got _angry_. How dare the Nazis make people live this way, hiding underground like moles so they don't get killed in their beds?"

Dad shrugged. He looked weary in the faint light.

Andrew straightened and looked his father in the face. "And then I realised – I _can_ do something about it. In a few days I'll be back in my Spit. I can shoot those cowardly bastards out of the sky, chase them back across the North Sea where they belong and keep kids like Cecily safe. I tell you, Dad, I can't _wait_."

His father's expression softened into that subtle, upside-down smile that so often took the place of words. "Sounds like the Germans had better watch out."

"Too bloody right. I'm ready to fight. I mean it, Dad."

Dad rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. After a long pause, he said, "Well. Best get back, I think. Need your sleep if you're planning on taking on the entire Luftwaffe singlehanded."

The words were casual, but the roughness in his voice told his son he understood the significance of his change of heart. A week ago, he'd been noncommittal at best about a return to ops; now he was raring to go. He'd rediscovered the fierce determination that had trickled away during the exhausting months of his last operational tour, the will to fight and to survive that might keep him alive over the coming months.


	11. Chapter 11: At the River

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 **Part Eleven: At the River**

 _Friday 21 August 1942_

Andrew's alarm went off at a quarter past six. He fumbled for the switch, his brain benumbed by lack of sleep, before his thoughts snapped into focus. _Ah, right. Fishing_.

Ten minutes later he was leaving the bathroom washed and dressed in old clothes just as his father was emerging onto the landing. He responded to Andrew's greeting with a finger to his lips. As he drew the bedroom door closed behind him, the son glimpsed Katherine asleep in wide bed, her arm draped protectively round a smaller figure huddled close beside her. He remembered what she'd told him on his first morning home about Cecily's recurring nightmares. After last night, he had a new appreciation of just how deep those fears must run.

* * *

Fishing with Dad was, like so many other experiences this week, coloured with a nostalgia that made him simultaneously aware of both how much and how little home had changed. There was the same sparkle of the early-morning sunlight on the water, the same tinkling of the current and the quiet whirr of the reel, the same cold of the river seeping through his hip waders – and yet all these sensations felt as though they belonged to another lifetime. Had it really been only two years since had last stood in this very spot with this same net in his hands, watching Dad cast expertly again and again? It felt like a decade … or a century.

It wasn't as though he and Dad hadn't had any time alone together this week. Katherine had tactfully left the two alone nearly every evening after Cecily went to bed, pleading fatigue or some task that required her attention, giving them plenty of chances to talk, to play chess and to polish off the bottle of whisky Dad had somehow procured. But being with him like this, on the riverbank, was one of Andrew's earliest and most resilient memories, and it somehow resonated more deeply.

They spoke little, in deference to their elusive quarry, but a deep current of camaraderie ran between father and son. Dad was always at his most relaxed at the river; today contentment fairly radiated from him as he repeatedly cast his line. With his skill and a fair measure of luck, he soon had three trout tucked in his creel.

Andrew watched Foyle as he deftly secured a Wickham's Fancy to the end of his line. He seemed happier than he had in years. While the young pilot was truly glad about that, a tiny voice inside him niggled. He had no intention of voicing his misgivings, but as his father raised his Hardy preparing to cast again, they suddenly burst out of their own accord. "Dad … do you still think about Mum?"

His voice was barely audible over the tinkle of the water, but the older man heard. He let his arm drop and turned to his son, his face twisting in consternation. " _Andrew_." In a few long strides he was out of the river and up the bank. "Oh, Andrew, I … of course I do. All the time. Not a day goes by that I don't … I thought you knew that."

The son dropped the net and stuffed his hands in his pockets, his face burning, inwardly berating himself for letting the impulsive question slip out. "Sorry, Dad, I shouldn't have …"

"Course you should. You can _always_ talk about Mum with me." Foyle's eyes, a deep, vivid blue, were locked onto his son's brown ones with penetrating intensity. "Marrying Katherine doesn't change that. Didn't change my feelings for your Mum. Nothing ever will, son."

* * *

They returned home to find the house smelling deliciously of fruit. Katherine had spent the morning making jam from the raspberries Cecily had gathered with her brownie troop. Nearly two dozen little jars sat on the worktop, their contents glowing faintly like rubies in the sunlight.

After an early lunch, Andrew headed upstairs to prepare for his departure. Packing had never been his strong suit, but after two years on active service he'd mastered the knack of stuffing his belongings efficiently, if not neatly, into his kit bag. He was just wedging a handful of clean socks into the depths when there was a light tap on the door jamb. His stepmother stood in the doorway with something in her hand. "Andrew?"

"Yes?"

"I've got something for you." She held out the object, which looked like a brown leather folder. "I thought you might like to have this."

He took it, recognising it to be one of those portable photograph frames that were so popular with servicemen. The padded cover protected the glass during travel and bent back to support the frame when the image was displayed. He opened it.

It was a picture of the four of them on Dad and Katherine's wedding day. Dad in his best suit standing erect as ever, his countenance schooled to something like seriousness for the camera, only his eyes revealing his joy. Katherine with her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, her open, lovely smile a window to her own happiness. Little Cecily at her mother's side clutching a nosegay in her hands, bursting with pride and pleasure. And Andrew himself at Dad's shoulder in his blues, a smile on his face but with a hint of wariness in his eyes, the only one of the quartet with reservations. Despite this, he thought they made a handsome grouping, the newly wedded couple flanked on either side by their children. They looked like a family, if a newly-minted one.

He raised his eyes to his stepmother. "Thank you," he told her with real gratitude. "This is – it's great, Katherine, really. I'll treasure it."

* * *

He thumped downstairs a quarter of an hour later with his kit to find the family waiting for him in the sitting room. "Got everything?" his father asked.

"Think so."

Dad dipped a hand into his pocket with a gesture that had become, to his son, all too familiar. "You, ummm, need any … ?"

Andrew smiled. "Thanks, Dad, I'm covered." _Good old Dad, never changes._

Cecily, who was standing by the window keeping watch, piped up, "The taxi's here!" She came across the room to him, and somewhat to his surprise threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. He let his kit bag drop to the floor and bent to hug her back, touched. "Have you got your heart?" she whispered.

He took her hand and pressed it to his chest where the lump of sea glass rested in his inner pocket, just beneath his campaign ribbons. "Right here, safe and sound." They smiled conspiratorially at each other. "You look after Dad for me, all right? Make sure he goes fishing."

She nodded her agreement and broke away, and Katherine stepped forward next and embraced him. "It was lovely having you here, Andrew. Please come back as soon as you can. And … fly safely." She kissed him on the cheek and released him, stepping back to her husband's side.

Andrew's mind flashed back to his first departure for the RAF, back in 1940, when Dad had refrained from offering more than a handshake despite the emotion so plainly written on his face. Katherine, however, wasn't having any such reticence, for he clearly saw her nudge his father with her elbow. Dad took the hint and stepped forward to give him a hug, if a bit stiffly. The son grinned as he patted his father on the back, relishing the rare contact.

A beep from the taxi outside made him break away and shoulder his kit. It was time to go.

Andrew looked back as the taxi trundled up Steep Lane. Behind him, like a tableau, he caught an image of those he was leaving behind. Dad, halfway down the front steps watching him go, Katherine behind him with her hand on his shoulder, and Cecily on the bottom step, clinging to the railing and swinging out, braids flying, to keep the cab in view for as long as possible. His family.

.

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 _Finis_

 _Feedback, as always, is deeply appreciated!_


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